


Messy Business

by hobbitsdoitbetter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awesome Molly Hooper, Breaking the Bed, Dorks in Love, Established Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, F/M, Gratuitous Smut, Lust, Making Babies, Married Sex, Molly Hooper Appreciation, Mrs Hudson will need ear-plugs, Oral Sex, Quickies, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Sex, Sexy Times, Shameless Smut, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, So will most of Baker Street, Wet & Messy, a damn good shag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 06:48:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13118313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: Tonight is the night, according to Molly.Cue Sherlock rushing back to Baker Street to get down to the messy, naughty business of procreating- Good thing Molly is as up for it all as he is.Smut ahoy!





	Messy Business

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Smutfest2017](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Smutfest2017) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Tonight is the night, according to Molly. 
> 
> Cue Sherlock rushing back to Baker Street to get down to the messy, naughty business of procreating- Good thing Molly is as up for it all as he is. 
> 
> Smut ahoy!

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is prohibited. 

 

**MESSY BUSINESS**

 

He’s halfway up the stairs before the front door even shuts.

 

Scarf off, coat unbuttoned. Gloves stuffed hastily into his pockets as he pushes open the door to 221B and sweeps in.

 

_According to her text, tonight is the night._

 

Molly looks up from her laptop- “That was fast!”- and before she can say anything else he’s picking her up. Huffing her into the bedroom as she squeals with laughter and calls him a ponce. A drama queen.

 

“What’s gotten into you?” she demands as kicks the bedroom door shut and tosses her onto their bed.

 

She bounces slightly on impact and he grins.

 

“You have.” And he pushes his coat off, then his jacket and shirt, letting them all pile in a messy bundle behind him as he toes his way out of his shoes. His socks. Molly watches him from the bed with wide, bright eyes, her cheeks reddening as her her gaze drops down to the tented front of his trousers.

 

He makes a point of slowly unbuttoning them- showing her how hard he is- before kicking his way free.

 

“And since you’ve gotten into _me_ ,” he continues,  stalking towards her, “then I think I should return the favour- Don’t you, Doctor Hooper?”

 

And before she can answer he’s leaning over her. Kissing her so hard he’ll be surprised if she can remember how to breathe after it. _He doubts_ **_he_ ** _will._ Naked flesh meets clothes, his prick pressing against her belly; Molly’s all over him, one little hand coming up to scratch through his hair, his nape. The other squeezing him lightly, thumb teasing the slit of his cock. Smearing it with pre-cum.

 

Sherlock swears; her tongue slides wetly between his lips until he opens up for her and it’s all velvet. Gorgeous- _But then it always is, with her_ \-  

 

He pulls back, relieved to see that she’s already so eager. It’s the only thing that had eaten at him while rushing home: Would he be able to get her ready in time? Would he be able to make sure she enjoyed this?

 

_He wouldn’t hurt his Molly, not for the world._

 

He needn’t have worried though: he nips at her lip, and she grins. Reaches up and- _alas!_ \- lets go of his cock before pulling off her t-shirt and tossing it at him playfully. Baring her perfect, bouncing, bra-less little tits for him, the blush on her cheeks now spreading noticeably over her chest, her belly.

 

The sight of it makes his mouth water.

 

“My, Doctor Hooper,” he breathes, “You’re really not messing around tonight, are you?”

 

“Nope.” She pops her Ps. Grins at him. “Not tonight, Mr. Holmes. Not when I’ve got you all hot and bothered...”

 

“You’ve always got me hot and bothered…” he scoffs.

 

“Then why waste it?”

 

And she kisses him, stopping his words. Stopping his argument- _Probably for the best._ He fills his hands with her knicker-clad hips and her sweet little arse-cheeks; she uses her grip on his hair to pull his mouth down to her breasts, to get him where she likes him best. He opens up, suckles one gorgeous, sweet little tit until it’s peaked. Then the other, teasing and nipping until Molly whimpers for him. He nuzzles his nose against her nipples and she keens, tugging at his hair sharply and swearing. Burying his face between her tits and holding him there.

 

“Fuck,” she mutters breathlessly. “Oh fuck, you’re so bloody good at that...”  

 

And she starts thrusting lewdly against him, fingers digging into his arse cheeks, muttering how much she likes how his mouth feels on her. Also several swear-words Sherlock has never heard before, all of which seem to imply that she’s very, very pleased with how the night is going thus far. _It makes him grin like a fool._ The smell of her arousal is everywhere, filling his head and making his cock ache with the need to be buried inside her heat…  Inside her heart… _It’s the only place he’s ever truly wanted to be…_

 

“I want that too, sweetheart,” she murmurs. “Oh God, I want that so much…”

 

He starts, surprised to realise that he’d said that last out loud. Embarrassed too, though he’d never want to admit it. _Even with her, there are still some emotions too fragile to say out loud._ Rather than think about that though he uses his weight to press her back against the bed. Laces their fingers together as he pulls her arms above her head, covers her soft little body with his big, lanky one.

 

He likes her stretched beneath him, ready for him to enter. Ready for him to surrender to.

 

He likes the way she gives herself over so trustingly to him, when he’s the last person anyone ever trusts.

 

She squirms impatiently and he reaches down, pulls at her pyjama shorts and yanks them off her. He tosses them aside before sliding his hand up her inner thigh towards her mound, his thumb caressing her folds, taking in the ready wetness there.  

 

 _“_ “Thank God,” he moans and she grins.

 

“You’re absolutely welcome.”

 

He spanks her lightly on her hip- “Behave yourself, woman,” - and in retaliation she spreads her thighs, hooks one knee around his waist to pull him to her. Into the cradling warmth of her.

 

He lets out a hiss of pleasure at the contact and she grins more widely, arching her body towards him, pressing her sweet little tits against his chest and tightening her thighs’ grip on his waist. Sherlock can’t help the string of helpless, grateful babble he lets out, his own hand coming down to jerk her legs higher. To rut roughly into her. She bares her throat in response, head dropping back onto the pillows, her eyes sultry and heavy-lidded.

 

“Please, sweetheart,” she murmurs, “please, oh please…Give me what I need… ”

 

“Don’t I always?” And he buries his head in her breasts again, rutting harder against her. Holding her tighter.  His thumb finds her wetness, dips into it, and she moans in pleasure against his shoulder. Presses against his fingers, gasping when the thumb is joined by his forefinger. Then his index finger.

 

At that she bites sharply at his shoulder and he sees stars.

 

“Oh God, sweetheart,” she murmurs. “You give me what I want, always, always…”

 

And she pulls his head to hers, kisses him passionately on his lips, his eyelids, his throat. Any inch of him she can reach. He does the same, the kisses now open-mouthed and almost sloppy. Almost reckless in the nakedness of their mutual want. Stimuli crash together, synapses firing blindly at her actions, their meaning. Suddenly everything is gorgeous- wet- wanted. It’s completely overwhelming in the way that being with Molly always is. Lips and mouths and hands come together; hair scratches against fingers and breaths pant against flesh. He pushes himself roughly inside her, meeting no resistance at all- _It feels like coming home to him-_ and Molly thrusts up against him in eagerness, starts to fuck him. To take him. She feels so warm, so wet, so _wanted._

 

She feels so good to him, he thinks he might die.

 

“You won’t die, sweetheart,” she tells him, “I have you… I have you…”

 

And she raises her hands above her head, pressing against the headboard to keep herself in place. “You can let go with me,” she whispers and Sherlock lets himself do just that. For he redoubles his pace, forcing himself harder inside her. Further inside her. Thrusting so wildly now that they’re making the bed-frame rattle and the headboard smack smartly against the wall- He thinks the bed might even have skidded a couple of inches across the floor by now-

 

One hand scratches down his spine to grab his arse, to knead and squeeze; the prick of pain makes him shudder. Sherlock feels almost drunk with pleasure, with trust and desire and the need, need, need to bury himself inside his woman, inside this person he loves so much. Molly’s lush and wild and eager beneath him. She keeps telling him that she loves him. Telling him she wants him. Her gasps and moans meld in with his breathing and the rocking of the bed-frame, the rhythmic banging of the headboard. She tugs his hair and tightens her grip on him; she moans in pleasure and he grips the headboard harder, finally uses it for leverage so he can push inside her more. Give her more of him. _It feels so bloody good, to finally let go_.They’re both breathless, both panting, and the entire world seems endlessly, joyously, bewilderingly sensate-

 

And then there’s a twist, as there always is. A guttural moan. A loss of control.

 

His eyes squeeze shut and suddenly pleasure is exploding from the base of Sherlock’s spine into his cock. His bollocks. The very molecules of his hair and skin and fingernails. It shoots out in waves, moving through him as he empties himself helplessly into her, wanting her to take every drop, every piece of him she can manage…

 

_He’ll give her everything he has, and he just hopes there’ll be enough…_

 

Molly gasps, shuddering in the aftershocks of her own climax  (a climax he didn’t even notice she’d found) and without even knowing why he wraps his arms around her. Pulls her tighter to him.

 

Sweaty, dishevelled and breathless, he collapses on top of her. Kisses her messily.

 

Sweaty, dishevelled and breathless, she winds him in her arms. Cradles his head against her breasts and strokes his hair.

 

Neither of them move for a very long time.

 

“Christ, I like making babies with you,” she mutters eventually and Sherlock can’t help it: he laughs.

 

She joins him and oh but that makes him glad.

 

“If I’d known all I needed to do to get orgasms on demand was agree to get you preggers then I’d have done this years ago,” he quips, to which she sticks out her tongue at him.

 

He tickles her slightly, giggling, grinning, especially when she starts fighting back - _And that too feels like coming home._

 

They stay there, locked together for who knows how long. Their sweat and juices slicked to  their skin, making it stick together. Turns out, making babies is a bloody messy business, Sherlock muses, and yet he never wants to pull apart. Never, not at all.

 

_If this is the night that they conceive then he never wants it to end._

 

After a few minutes Molly pulls away- he pouts- only to rest her head in his lap. She smiles sleepily up at him as he cards his fingers through her hair; she raises her legs and leans them against the wall, doing what little more she can to help them reach the point of tonight’s endeavours, the production of an honest-to-goodness Hooper/Holmes hybrid. A child. _Their_ child. Half him and half her and something Sherlock’s realised he wants so badly it actually rather frightens him-

 

He strokes her hair and murmurs that he loves her, murmurs that he hopes this is the right night.

 

He already knows it’s the right woman.

 

She smiles sleepily up at him and tells him she loves him. She hopes the baby is just like him.

 

Eventually Molly falls asleep and he tucks her in against him, wraps her in his arms. Cuddles her, even in sleep.

 

The bedroom looks like a crime scene and he grins proudly at the thought.

 

**********************************************

 

A month later there’s another pregnancy test, this one positive, and though he knows he should be terrified, all Sherlock can do is smile at his Molly in relief.

 

“No more messy sex for us,” he tells her primly.

 

“Speak for yourself, Mr. Holmes,” she retorts, and within moments they’re manhandling one another towards their bedroom again.

 


End file.
